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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842202">Bohemian Fever</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcschnuggles/pseuds/mcschnuggles'>mcschnuggles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Flip for It [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Regression/De-Aging, CGRE - Caregiver/Age Regressor, Caregiver!Aziraphale, Gen, Regressing!Crowley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 16:01:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842202</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcschnuggles/pseuds/mcschnuggles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley fakes being sick for more attention.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Flip for It [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1476851</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Regressuary, Regressuary 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bohemian Fever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>            Crowley wants attention.</p><p>            Really nothing new. When it comes to his angel, there’s not enough attention in the world, especially when he’s regressed.</p><p>            To be perfectly clear, he didn’t start out this morning regressed. But somewhere during his morning drive, which consists of disobeying every traffic law he can think of off the top of his head, he began to realize how utterly unattended to he was at the moment, and before he knew it, he was parked in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop.</p><p>            Half of him wants to waltz right in and demand spoiling, while the other is too shy to ask. These halves aren’t his big and little sides respectively, more like a weird blending of the two. Like he’s mashed two different Play-Doh colors together and cut it half perpendicular to the seam. He doesn’t know which side the shame comes from. Crowley didn’t even think he felt shame.</p><p>            He looks out his window and accidently makes eye contact with Aziraphale, and while he smiles, on the inside he’s screaming. There goes his time to brood, he supposes. His angel will be expecting him.</p><p>            His mind is already racing. What if when he suggests the coin flip, his angel needs time and takes it for himself? He doesn’t want to protest and get in the way of that? He needs something where they can skip that. That’s the problem with unspoken rules, isn’t it? No actual talking ever gets done.</p><p>            “Good morning, dear boy.” Aziraphale greets. He pulls to a stop, concern lacing his features. “Are you alright? You look rather pale.”</p><p>            And suddenly Crowley is hit with a stroke of genius. “I’m sick actually.” He sniffles loudly to prove his point. “Believe I caught my own virus I was sending around town.”</p><p>            “Oh, you poor thing.” Aziraphale croons. “Well, it won’t do you any good to stand out in the cold. Do come in.” He glances from side to side, eyeing the human patrons paying neither of them any mind. “Shall we forgo the coin flip this time, then? I do believe I have a warm duvet with your name all over it.”</p><p>            It takes everything in Crowley to not race for the couch, and instead look feeble and tired and very much ill.</p><p>            Crowley had a naturally low body heat, so it’s not out of the ordinary to see him curled up on the far couch, swimming in a comforter twice his size. One of the patrons even offers him a small wave, having seen him there so often. The only reason he doesn’t smile back is because he’s not nice, nor does he try to be.</p><p>            Once he’s settled in his favorite spot, Aziraphale places an inquisitor hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel particularly warm.” Aziraphale points out. “What was this virus of yours?”</p><p>            Crowley racks his brains for a story, immediately settling on the albums in his car. “Bohemian Fever.”</p><p>            Aziraphale furrows his brow. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of Bohemian Fever.”</p><p>            Crowley casually waves his hand, as if to dispel Aziraphale’s concern. “It’s a rather new sickness. Not big enough for anyone to add into their books yet. Something me and the boys have been working on for a while. It only just got off the ground.”</p><p>            “I see.” Aziraphale offers a gentle smile, with just enough doubt sewn in for Crowley to doubt if he buys it. “Well, I’ll be tending to my shop if you need me. How about I bring you a nice mug of tea for that throat of yours?”</p><p>            Crowley blinks, wondering why his throat would be hurting, before remembering that’s a common symptom in most minor sicknesses. He hadn’t mentioned it, but he’s sure it wouldn’t hurt to add. “Oh, yeah. Terrible aching throat I’ve got.”</p><p>            Aziraphale brings him a steaming mug of tea, which is lovely. Holding the cup warms his hands, easing his shivers a little. That’s not the problem. The problem is when he gets distracted making cups for a couple of his favorite patrons.</p><p>            And he means “patrons” in the loosest sense of the word. One woman comes in every day, but she does little more than open books and look at them before leaving. Aziraphale and Crowley have a running bet for when she’s going to actually buy a book, but the day still has yet to come. Crowley’s convinced she just likes old book smell.</p><p>            The other is a man who, while too interested in the first editions for Aziraphale’s liking, does carry rousing conversations about literature. Apparently he’s reread <em>The Wizard of Oz</em> recently. The book hasn’t seen Aziraphale’s bedside table in quite some time, but he keeps an enthused conversation all the same.</p><p>            If Crowley were a sensible, communicable person who wears his heart on his sleeve, he might politely call for Aziraphale and say he needs a bit more doting on this day. However, since Crowley is as far from that ideal as can be, he instead gives his best go at a hacking cough.</p><p>            “My dear boy, you sound <em>awful.</em>” Aziraphale coos. “Is there anything I can do for you?”</p><p>            Crowley fakes a weak smile. “Just having you nearby is enough, angel.”</p><p>            Aziraphale scoffs, trying to play it off like the words don’t leave him utterly tickled. “Rest, little one.”</p><p>            They find a steady rhythm throughout the day. Crowley finds the duvet too warm not to doze under. When he wakes and the mood strikes him, he’ll unleash another awful sounding cough and Aziraphale dutifully comes to check on him. Once when he comes, just to throw off suspicion, he requests his lovey, a pair of scissors aptly named Stabby. After all, demons don’t love, especially not things that are cute and sweet and nice. Besides, a friend he can cause trouble with is so much more fun.</p><p>            Aziraphale is trying his best to be attentive. Even when Crowley doesn’t call for him, he slowly develops a habit of looping back around to the couch just to check on him. He’ll even drop the occasional forehead kiss if Crowley is looking particularly mopey, which is a huge step for Aziraphale, especially in the company of so many prying eyes.</p><p>            He’s half-asleep when Aziraphale closes up shop for the evening. The gentle patter of rain has been soothing him for the past hour, waking him up easily and frequently enough to satiate his need for attention. The fake coughing caused a strain on his throat a while ago, but the tea is helping take care of that quite well.</p><p>            Aziraphale sits on the opposite end of the couch, careful to shoo Crowley’s feet out of his way, and collects the mug from the floor. “You know there’s no need to fake illnesses for my attention, don’t you?”</p><p>            He asks it so suddenly that Crowley sputters. “Of course. Why would you even suggest something like that?”</p><p>            “No reason. Just in case it comes up in the future, perhaps? I’d hate for you to have to go to something as extreme as concocting a disease just for my attention.” Aziraphale takes a long drink of his tea.</p><p>            Crowley can feel his face burning. “How long did you know?”</p><p>            “Know what, dear?” There’s a glimmer in his eyes, one that betrays just how much enjoyment he derives from poking fun. “How poorly you’re feeling?”</p><p>            It takes Crowley a second, mostly because of all the sleeping he’s been doing. He can’t help his mind being a little foggy.</p><p>            Another unspoken agreement. Another open secret between the two of them. A way for him to say what he needs without having to say it. To be known and understood and cared for.</p><p>            “Right.” He lifts his feet onto Aziraphale’s lap, feeling his angel’s warmth. They don’t have to move right away, do they? After all, no one’s here. “Right.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mcschnuggles.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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